By Treelight
by QuidditchQuitter
Summary: After attending a play about Dumbledore’s illfated love for Grindelwald, Harry is shocked to learn of Malfoy’s part in the production, and decides to attend his Christmas party.


-1**Title: **_**By Treelight**_

**Disclaimer: **Let's not insult anyone's intelligence with a disclaimer, including J.K. Rowling's (and not least of all, mine, by having to write one in the first place.)

**Summary: **After attending a play about Dumbledore's ill-fated love for Grindelwald, Harry is shocked to learn of Malfoy's part in the production, and decides to attend his Christmas party.

**Warnings: **slash, a bit more sappiness than usual, and I wrote this one all at once so the writing might not be as smooth as I'd like!

**Pairings: **Harry/Draco

**Author's Notes: **Post DH but pre-Epilogue. Merry Christmas. Enjoy!

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Did you have to invite him?"

"Enough. Go up and be civil to him. It's the least you owe him for saving your life." His mother was tapping her elbow with her extraordinarily long nails. It was a habit so irritating that Draco could never stand to be in the same room with her when she did it.

"The way I remember it, you saved his too." Draco retorted, but he swallowed the rest of his drink and excused himself. Instead of heading for the door, however, where Potter stood looking around like a lost tourist in the street, he turned on his heel and wove his way through the crowd of gaily clad guests into the darkened spare dining room. Here, there was nothing but the table, spare and covered with plain white tablecloth. The gifts had been delivered to the guests by the house elves already. The room was complexly dark, except for the cold moonlight shining in through the great windows, and the soft, muddled glow of the Malfoy's dining room Christmas tree. As he entered the room, Draco let the remain open enough for a crack to let in some of the light from the party. He loosened his tie and collar, trying to slow his breathing to a steady, relaxed pace. He shut his eyes as regret washed over him.

Why had he allowed his parents to invite Potter to their party? It had been a mistake. He should have known he'd feel that way the moment he met eyes with his old rival again. The sight of him, mature, mannish, distinguished, yet still quiet and graceful in his dark jacket and green scarf brushed with snowflakes, had been very unsettling, to say the least. _This was a big mistake_, he thought. And yet, somewhere deep down, he felt a sense of sad pleasure. Potter had responded to his invitation. Potter had come to his party. Potter wanted to see him.

"Don't kid yourself. He came because he figured he might as well make an appearance. Not to do so would have been rude."

Draco walked over to the window and gazed out into the snow that swirled about outside, remembering that evening, the last time he'd seen Potter, and the way those eyes…

…lit up in the light of the chandelier as they fell upon his own. How had he never noticed those eyes before? Harry had swallowed, disturbed by the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. He stood there, one hand resting on the banister, long after Malfoy had left the theater. He wanted to savor this, understand the momentary sensation of surprise and thrill as their eyes had met. What sense would there be in denying it? And why should he be afraid, when the most famous wizard he'd ever known, as well as the most honest, had felt something similar for another, and had to face worse than just the fear that his feelings might be discovered by others? Harry was still too moved by the revelation of Dumbledore's tragic love story, which had just been breathtakingly depicted upon the stage-accompanied by the sound of sniffles from the vast audience of witches and wizards who were the first to see the now-infamous play.

Even more astonishing was the fact that Malfoy, his old rival and most devoted enemy, was rumored to have been the most generous sponsor of the production. That Malfoy might have retained a buried burden of sorrow at his role in Dumbledore's death was not too hard to guess. But why, of all the stories that could be told about Harry's hero, would Malfoy be interested in _this_ one? Why had he given so generously, and even been a principle part of the writing and producing of the piece? The whole event had been so talked up and wondered about, bringing attention to the last subject in the world Harry would have expected to find the wizarding world preoccupied with: the trials of alternate sexualities, and the execution so emotionally charged that Harry felt as if he had been turned on his head and shaken so that all he'd thought he'd understood about life was called into question.

He had bought tickets for the play the moment he saw the full-page, colored ad in _The Daily Prophet_, even before he noticed the words, "A Malfoy-Rheingold Production." At first glance on opening night, it seemed that Malfoy had not even bothered to attend his own production, but during the intermission, Harry noticed him, sitting alone in a private box at the top of the theater. As with similar incidents in his past days, he found himself distracted with preoccupation about Malfoy. What was he thinking and feeling, as he watched his production bring hundreds of witches and wizards to tears? He had to know it was certain to sell out for months. What had brought him to create such a masterpiece, such a daring exploration into the mysteries of Dumbledore's ill-fated love life?

And as usual, Harry figured he probably would never know. Since the vanquishing of Voldemort six years ago, in which Harry had saved Malfoy from a room burning with supernatural fire from hell, they had not been near enough to speak even as much as the two or three comments they'd exchanged as schoolmates. When the curtain fell on the last standing ovation, Harry glanced quickly up to see Malfoy exiting his box. He had hastily weaved through the crowd to the hallway in time to see that Malfoy was already several floors below. Would he catch him? And, more importantly, what did he plan to do even if he could? Talk to him and ask him why he had helped write and produce the play?

Harry had been watching the white-blond head of Malfoy, always unmistakable, moving across the floor below. Then, for some inexplicable reason, as Malfoy was looking around, he glanced up, and their eyes met. How had he never noticed those misty shadows, behind which, when the light of the chandelier caught them, burning secrets were ignited. And the amazing thing about it was that they both comprehended the other, and still did not look away, but lingered for a moment as if they'd had the same thought. _As if,_ he'd thought later, _we were trying to read the other's mind. _Then Malfoy blinked and, looking thoughtful, turned away, continuing his path to the great golden door. At that moment, Harry vowed that the next opportunity he had to talk to Malfoy face to face, he would not let it slip by as he had done, so many times.

For several days after, he had felt somewhat dazed. The spell of Dumbledore's story of how he had loved his school friend and then had to kill him in a duel hung over Harry, rendering him useless at work. Ron gave up trying to talk much with him about anything not work-related, after suffering an initial four-hour talk about how amazing the play had been, and wasn't it odd that it was produced by Malfoy? He had just begun to shake off these effects when the invitation came. Then, that strange, unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach returned, and Harry realized he had only begun to scratch the surface in this latest of Malfoy-related mysteries.

When Harry arrived at Malfoy Manor he was met with both nostalgia and a curious sense of déjà vu. The beautiful mansion was lavishly decked with floating lights in Christmas colors. A fountain in the courtyard sprinkled in alternating colors while bubbles that looked amazingly like ornaments popped out endless into the snow. All manner of carriages, magical vehicles and stylish apparations were gracing the entrance of the manor as the richest and (some) of the most respected witches and wizards made their appearances. Harry stood stupidly on the long steps as they arrived, thinking that the Malfoys must have been working very hard to forge and maintain respectability in these post-Voldemort years. From his work with Ron, he knew that the Malfoys had officially distanced themselves from the former Death Eaters, but neither of them had for a second believed that Draco Malfoy's parents were entirely genuine.

Draco Malfoy, on the other hand, had temporarily disappeared from the public eye whenever possible. Until this play. Suddenly, the headlines of _The Daily Prophet_ were filled with proclamations of stage's latest "epic of redemption" and the "newest champion of the gay wizard movement." Somehow, the mention of Malfoy's name escaped Harry's attention until the release of the play, but the mention of Dumbledore's had certainly not. Harry found that after he'd given his invitation and been shown in, there was no lack of interest in his thoughts on Malfoy's apparent transformation.

He tried as politely as he could to greet everyone who stopped him every five feet down the hall, finally being shown into the great room by some of his friends at the Ministry of Magic. He had kept his coat on, along with the new green scarf Hermoine had knitted for him as a gift. The room was filled with people, all dressed in their best and milling about with animated smiles and sparkling eyes. _They're all excited to be here_, he realized. He suspected that everyone was anxious to get to know the newly re-emerged Draco Malfoy, especially if his interest in the theater was really as promising as the _Prophet _tried to make out.

As he wandered about, trying hard not to get stuck in another conversation, he scanned the room for the white-blond hair of the Malfoy's. It was a good ten minutes before he finally spotted Narcissa, Malfoy's mother, standing with her son who was walking away, looking typically sullen. Harry was disappointed; Malfoy did not look much different from when he'd gone to school with him at Hogwarts, and he'd been particularly loathsome.

"What am I doing here," he muttered, snaking through the crowd. What made him think things were going to be any different now? How did he know that Malfoy would even want to speak to him at all? He felt his face grow warm as he remembered that thrill of their eyes locking, that moment when he'd felt an echo of the strange feelings the play had awakened in him, so confused, threatening and unexplainable. _That play must have really done a number on me, if I've actually convinced myself to come to one of Malfoy's shindigs._ He lost sight of Malfoy, his familiar, stiff-backed figure ducking around a corner at the opposite end of the room. Then, Harry remembered something: He'd specifically been invited to this party. Wasn't that alone reason enough to put aside the childish hesitation left over from the Hogwarts years when…

…for as long as he could remember, Draco could not look at Harry Potter without feeling some mixture of powerful, surging emotion. At the time, much of it had been loathing. Or at least, that was what it had become. But Draco was well aware these days, that it had not always been the case. Yes, there had been some genuine jealousy, and the resulting competition. But there was something else, too…something at the bottom of all that. Admiration. Draco had once loved Harry Potter. Once.

_Just as Albus Dumbledore loved Grindelwald_.

Now that he was a man, Draco could see through the protective mask he had constructed to hide behind throughout his school years, and how complicated it had grown with each passing year. It had, perhaps, even begun with Potter's first rejection of his friendship. All that hate, for all those years, because of that one wound; he could only now appreciate the complexity of that hate. Dumbledore's death on the tower that year, when Draco himself had disarmed him of his wand, had rendered that old wound wide open again. All through sixth year, his defenses had been worn down more and more by the pressure of his father in prison, his own involvement with an increasingly horrific Dark Lord, and all the while the loneliness, the feigned interest in Pansy Parkinson, the sense that he was unlovable, that no one would ever see who he really was.

Then, when everything had been put to rights, as it were, by Harry Potter-despite Draco's intentions otherwise-and his friends, the interest in Dumbledore's story was revived, and Draco found himself sobbing, laughing, washed anew of his transgressions as he read the first of many of the great wizard's biographies and discovered the greatest love story he'd ever known. Alone in his room that day, where he'd stayed shut up for most of a week as he read, he knew with astonishing clarity two things: first, Dumbledore had seen him for who he really was, and so had, perhaps, Professor Snape, and second, that he, like Dumbledore, was gay. During those years at Hogwarts, under the thumb of his father and in the shadow of Voldemort, there had been no time, no way of coming to that insight. But now that he had begun making his peace with his deep desire for love above anything else, he understood. When the time was right, the people around him would understand as well. But first, he had a debt to pay to Dumbledore.

And there was something else he had to face, someone else to make his peace with. Only, when he saw Potter standing there in his home, the green scarf bringing out the emerald sparkle of his fierce, deep eyes set in a determined, handsome face-_he's grown his hair out again!-_ suddenly his stomach churned within him and he wasn't sure he could go through with it after all. _What was I thinking!_ His mind screaming, "Abort!" he had left to gather his thoughts, breathing shakily, determined to summon his new-found courage in adulthood and sort out all the conflicting feelings surging around inside. Harry Potter, his rival, his enemy, always and forever his better. Harry Potter, his hero. Potter, his complete opposite in every way, his Gryffindor counterpart. Harry, his first and only love.

_And what was I going to do, _tell_ him? Did I honestly believe he might feel the same way? Just because he came to my play?_ But, he _had _come to the play, and he had come to the party. He had passed Draco's first test, and now Draco would have to keep his deal with himself. Lost in his thoughts, it took him a second to notice the widening arc of lamplight that opened into the room…

…lighting up his form as he stood there, his back to Harry. Before he could think of what he would say, Draco turned around and saw him, gray eyes locking his. _Here we go again,_ Harry thought, as he waited to see who would look away first. But Draco merely stared at him and nodded, putting his glass down on the table that stood between them.

"Potter."

"Malfoy. I…got your invitation."

"So I gather."

Harry almost laughed himself, embarrassed, as Draco smirked.

"Nice party. Wonderful party, I mean."

"You're too kind."

Well, so far, so civil; Draco hadn't exactly invited his company, but he wasn't dropping any unpleasant hints yet, either. _You promised, _he sternly reminded himself. He walked slowly into the room, focusing his attention on the enormous tree in the corner.

"Wow. When the Malfoys do Christmas, you really go all out."

"It's my mother's favorite holiday, Potter. She insists on having a tree in every room."

"Are all of them so elaborate?"

"Become an interior decorator lately?" It was out before he could stop himself. Draco shuddered inwardly. _Old habits die hard, don't they._

"Just admiring. Always my favorite holiday, too. That, and my birthday."

Something was strange; Potter wasn't leaving. That was interesting…

"…suppose that's probably a bit selfish. Both the holidays where I get gifts!"

"Nothing wrong with that. I suppose it's only natural, when you've come from a family that pretty much ignored you as a child."

Harry looked back at him, surprised. Was that an insult, or an honest observation? He couldn't tell; those gray eyes were inscrutable as ever. Inscrutable…not angry or mean or even shallow, as he'd always thought. Quite the contrary, in fact. He left the tree and approached Draco, stopping about three feet from him. Man to man, for once in their lives…

"…at least, that's what I've always heard. Isn't that right?"

"My relatives you mean? Yeah, pretty much. I suppose you're right. But what about you?"

"What about me?"

"I mean, your favorite holiday. It…it isn't Christmas, then?"

It was the only thing he could think of to say. _Just keep the conversation going, please. _Any_thing. Until what? Until I think of something to say?_

"Not really. Mine was always…" Draco's beautiful, gray eyes drifted upward as he thought about it. "I think it was always the first day of school."

"Really?" Harry could hardly stifle his laugh of disbelief.

"Yeah." This time, it was Draco who took a step toward Harry. "I always liked coming back to school. Even though some of it was stupid. Still my favorite time of the year."

"It was hard to leave it behind."

"Yeah."

Finally, something they had in common, something they understood in spite of all their history of differences. They were quiet for a moment; Draco noticed a sort of wistfulness in Harry's expression. _He must be remembering too, _he thought. Then, all of a sudden, he wondered how it was that he and Harry were standing alone in this room, apart from everyone else in the party-

"I saw the play you produced, last week; about…about Dumbledore."

"Yeah. Saw you there." Draco's heart began to beat fast again. It felt hotter in the room. Harry was looking nervous; his green eyes kept flitting to his face, however. He found it difficult to look into them. Harry looked so…so _beautiful, _close up. He was so beautiful, no wonder he hated him. He hated Potter because he'd always been in love with him.

"It was amazing. Absolutely amazing. I was so, just…" Harry searched for words, finding it easier to talk now that he was speaking his true feelings. "So stunned. I'd been meaning to ask you. I mean, I have so many questions, that is, if you _want_ to talk about it. I expect your guests have been able to talk about nothing else," he finished politely, afraid Malfoy would decline and this would be as far as they'd ever get to a genuine exchange.

Draco raised an eyebrow. Really? Potter wanted to talk about the play? He shrugged.

"Ask away."

"I hardly know where to start. What made you want to tell that story? And how did you find out about all those details?"

So that was it. Draco felt it was all too good to be true. Half an hour ago, his greatest secret wish was that Harry Potter would walk through his door, that he would come and talk with him, that he would, for once in their miserable lives, be impressed by something Draco had done instead of the other way around. And now that this was obviously the case, Draco felt that it was all too overwhelming for the likes of someone like him. He sighed, feigning impatience in the hopes of buying more time.

"I learned same as everyone else, Potter. I read. I know, I know…hard to believe, me cracking a book."

"You know what I mean." Harry laughed, his face darkening with an infuriatingly sensual blush, then he looked serious again, and Draco gulped. "Why'd you do it? And how? The way it seemed…" Harry's voice fell to almost a whisper as he stepped even closer, and Draco resisted the urge to back away. He could see the dark stubble on Harry's chin now, the lines where his throat met his broad yet lean chest, and the famous, dark scar on his forehead that peeked out from under his hair.

"…it was so powerful." Harry laughed again, looking down at his feet. Draco realized he must have been interpreting his blank expression as disinterest. "I know I probably sound ridiculous. It's just…it was Dumbledore. I was just getting used to all this about his love affair and whatnot, and then not only do I find out a play is scheduled to be staged all about it, but the co-producer and writer is you."

At this, Malfoy actually did laugh.

"I'm sorry," Potter amended. "I didn't mean it to sound quite like that."

"It's okay. Potter, it would take a very long time to give you the answer you're asking for. Much longer than an evening at our Christmas party."

Silence pervaded the room as both men waited for the other to cross the invisible line.

"So why don't you meet me for a drink sometime?"

"Um-I am going to be quite busy this month, what with-"

"Tomorrow? What are you doing tomorrow evening?"

"I think we have another engagement; I have to check with my-"

"Lunch, then? I don't care how busy you are, Malfoy, you've got to eat just like everyone else," Harry closed the distance, finding himself in that strange, calm place he'd learned to recognize as his persistent gift of resolve. Something was happening between them. He didn't know yet exactly what it was-didn't dare, perhaps-but he thought he saw an inkling of it every time he looked into Malfoy's eyes.

Draco swallowed again, but this time his mouth felt dry with fear. He had meant to wrap things up with Potter, once and for all, but he hadn't pictured it quite like this. He wasn't ready; he'd forgotten about Potter's intensity, about how he could never just let things _go_…

"…Well? What do you say?"

"Why so interested, Potter? I know you were Dumbledore's pet and all-"

"I'll just ignore that last-"

"Oh come on. You know what I mean. You couldn't have imagined that you were the only one who…who cared about him?"

Now it was Draco's turn to blush furiously. He sounded angry, but he wasn't, and he hated himself for it. He was backed into a corner. Couldn't Potter see that? Couldn't he see how painful it was to talk about Dumbledore that way, knowing that he had contributed to his death? Even though it had been planned from the beginning, even after the news about Snape's loyalty to Dumbledore to the point of death, it still hurt. Why couldn't anyone ever see how he felt? _Damn you, Potter. You should have studied harder at legilimancy when you had the chance._

"Of course I don't think that, Draco." Harry was moved; despite what Malfoy might think, he _did _ see through the anger. "At least, I can hardly think so now. But, I've harassed you long enough. You obviously didn't come in here because you wanted to be interrogated." It seemed to be a good time to back off, and Harry wasn't sure he was going to get anywhere after all now that he'd made a fool of himself. "Anyway, I hope maybe I'll get the chance to talk with you more about it. The play, I mean. If you ever have a minute in your busy schedule. Maybe you'll look me up."

"Wait a minute. You didn't harass me. I'm still not used to talking about it, that's all." There was a transparent honesty in Draco's eyes now. "Truth is, I wasn't expecting you to actually show up tonight."

"Oh?" Harry looked down, thoughtful. "Well, I guess you'd have no reason to."

"So, I have an idea. How about we trade? You tell me why you're here tonight. I mean the real reason; why you're so interested in my play." Draco's heart was pounding. He knew he was going out on a limb this time. But he met Harry's questioning gaze calmly, knowing that now was as good a time as any to keep his promise to himself. _I have nothing to be afraid of, or ashamed of, anymore. If Potter still has something to overcome, that's his problem, not mine. _It would be a lot easier to accept that, however, if he weren't still craving his admiration with every second. "You tell me, and I'll tell you more about why I wanted to do it."

As Draco said this, he stepped deliberately into the circle of Harry's space, waiting to see if he would back away. All at once, he knew what his most secret Christmas wish was. Harry stood there, uncertain, surprised, but also willing.

_Dumbledore, how is that you always knew so much about me?_ Was it possible? This whole week had been so strange, and then this evening so unusual and unexpected. Malfoy, an astonishingly good-looking guy, when you stopped to think about it, had crossed a line Harry hadn't even dared acknowledge. And now, there was nothing he could do about it. He could take the cowardly route, as he had so often done when it came to this kind of thing, and run away, or he could face it as Dumbledore had had to face it to the very end, all those years ago.

It was that connection that did it for Harry. He decided on some subconscious level to tell the truth to himself as well as to Malfoy. It was almost cathartic, actually.

"All right, fair enough." Harry stepped in as well, returning Malfoy's gaze. His blond hair had grown out and threatened to meet the long lashes that extended from the smooth face. How had he never noticed how attractive Malfoy was? Or, had there always been a fascination there, and he'd only mistaken it for something else. "I wanted to see you."

"Not just about the play."

"No, partly for that. A large part. But mostly, I just wanted a second chance."

"A second chance? For?"

"To get to know you. How could I ignore that play? It seemed so unlike you…"

"And yet, how would you know?"

"That's it, Malfoy. Exactly."

"Draco."

"What?"

"There's no need to stand on ceremony. You said you wanted to get to know me." Draco's heart thudded in his chest. He was terrified at what he was thinking of doing, but he was so certain he could feel the electric thrill coming off of Harry's skin. At a moment like this, when clarity was so stark, there could be no doubt. One seized the opportunities when it came and dealt with the consequences later. Isn't that what the story was all about in the first place?

"Oh, right."

"Well, first of all, there's one thing you should know about me. I think it will explain a lot."

"And what's that, Draco?"

_It's that I've always loved you, Harry Potter. _ Draco reached a swift hand around the back of Harry's neck and pressed a kiss against his red lips. He refused to pull away, savoring the moment, waiting for the brush off from Harry. _Let him be the one to end it._ But though he stood there stiffly, he did not. Draco pushed gently one last time, then parted from him, the wetness on his lips exciting him with sudden heat. _I'm not going to believe this ever happened tomorrow,_ he realized.

Harry stood there, stunned, the shock of electric arousal leaving him with something like an upset stomach. The stab of pleasure from Draco's kiss told him more than he'd expected to have to deal with tonight. Even so, Harry relished it, replaying it over and over in his mind, at high speed…

"I'm sorry," Draco was saying now, smiling apologetically as if he were talking about stepping on his shoes. "I know that was very forward of me, but you see, it really was easier than just coming out and telling you that I'm gay."

"So that's what that was?"

"Yeah…yes."

"And that's all? Just letting me know that you're gay?" Harry sounded reproachful. _And here's where it gets ugly._ Draco was resigned to this part. It would be worth it. But, might as well tell the whole truth while he was at it, right? Hadn't he resolved to have the courage to face this very moment, if he were ever lucky enough to have it?

"No. Not just that."

"You had me worried for a moment."

"What do you mean?"

Harry noted with some pleasure that Draco sounded a little breathless. With hope?

"I mean that a kiss like that seems like it should be special. I'd hate to think you'd have to waste it just to tell someone that you're gay."

"Oh? Well then, how about you drop the pretense, too? You know what it is, then, don't you?"

"I'm not really sure…"

"Then why are you still standing here, Harry?"

"Because I know that, whatever it meant, I liked it, and I think I want to know more." Now Harry, Draco could see, was the one paralyzed with fear. And this gave him confidence. This, and the soft, unutterably romantic glow from the combined light of the Christmas tree, and the moon shining through the window onto Harry's dark head. All of a sudden, Draco was struck with the distinct sense of feeling the exact same emotions that he'd had on the day they'd first met, along with all those combined feelings of jealous admiration and, in this last moment, true love culminating in this first gesture.

"Whatever you say," Draco murmured, leaning in.

"What? What's that supposed to mean?" Harry resisted Draco's hand for just a second, before giving way to its gentle insistence.

"Just that right now, this seems too perfect to be real. It's uncanny."

He kissed Harry again, this time for a long time as they stood in the moonlight. It was a wonder they were never interrupted.

"I know what you mean," Harry whispered when Draco released him…

…When Draco woke up the next morning, he could hardly believe it hadn't all been a dream.


End file.
